


ache in you (put there by the ache in me)

by jamesstruttingpotter



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: F/M, nothing to see here just more arguing as a form of intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesstruttingpotter/pseuds/jamesstruttingpotter
Summary: What does a relationship look like when it's defined by fighting with each other?If you're the High King and Queen of Elfhame, it mostly looks like surrendering, one piece of yourself at a time.
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar
Comments: 21
Kudos: 110





	ache in you (put there by the ache in me)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a 5+1 fic but I ended up liking the arc as I had it with just 4 scenes?? Sorry if it feels unbalanced without the two extra scenes! There's a strong hint toward explicit content but not enough that I felt an M rating was necessary, but please let me know if you think I should bump it up there.
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe and healthy!

1.

Jude has spent a very long time telling herself she works best alone. 

To be fair, this is likely true. One doesn’t become the seneschal to the High King at the tender age of eighteen by putting one’s trust in just anybody. This is doubly true for mortal girls, and infinitely true of mortal girls who dare to become High Queen. Jude has dragged herself out of mud and clay onto Elfhame’s sacred, blessed throne, one made just for her, by lying, cheating, stealing, killing, and most of all, relying solely on herself.

It’s become a hard habit to break. She’s not even sure she needs to. The mistake comes when she goes ahead and tells Cardan that.

A droll smile crosses his face at the statement. “Ah,” he says, leaning back in his seat, “and how could I forget the day I ceded my crown to you? High King Jude, sole ruler and protector of the land.”

She grits her teeth. The burnished wood of the Living Council’s table, where she sits at the head and Cardan at the foot, is cool beneath her palms, her splayed fingers. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have more experience and knowledge when it comes to spycraft. That is indisputable.”

“And were this solely a discussion regarding the latest poisoning techniques, I’d be happy to let you chatter on. As it stands, this matter has unfortunately devolved into state business.”

The Council had fled their meeting chambers minutes earlier, looking their usual mixture of exasperated and terrified at the renewal of war between Their Royal Majesties. Jude therefore allows herself to contemplate bloody spousal murder for a few seconds longer than she otherwise would. “State business that I can handle _myself_ ,” she says, after a particularly satisfying image involving Nightfell. “My Court of Shadows was the first to report a spike in weapons trading in the former Court of Teeth. If there’s danger in the territory, it’ll be them with whom I confer, not you, and certainly not this Council.”

“Why? So you can plan a little assassination attempt? Is murder truly the only problem-solving technique you possess?”

“Evidently not, given you’re still alive,” she mutters, and Cardan’s laughter shatters the ice between them.

“Oh, Jude,” he says, sitting up a little straighter. “And should I thank you for your mercy?”

“It wouldn’t go amiss,” she replies, begrudging.

“Well, I shall sing of your grace and goodness from here to the far, desolate corners of our queendom.”

“You won’t be going anywhere further north than the Crooked Forest until this business is sorted out.”

“Let’s sort it out, then.” Cardan leans forward. “Haven’t you considered simply discussing the matter with Suren?”

She frowns. “I doubt Suren would be forthcoming.”

“Why wouldn’t she be? She’s still young, consolidating power, and likely wants to find any traitors as much as we do. More, even.”

“And how do we know the activity in question is from traitors and not her agents?”

“I suppose we’ll find that out once we speak with her.” He stands to rifle through the documents scattered across the low desks that sit along the far wall, below the wide windows overlooking their palace gardens. “We’d have the advantage if we invited her here. Certainly more of an advantage than a sole spy sent to their territory.” He finds a sheaf of blank parchment and a quill and returns to sit in the seat next to hers. 

“What pretense would we have for inviting her here? How would we know she would accept our invitation?”

“I’m sure I can put together a revel to serve as an excuse.” His smile is sharp-edged. “And it would likely be suicide to deny us.”

Jude bites her lip. It involves too much of staying still for her comfort; she would much rather go herself than wait for Suren. Cardan watches her face, then says, “You can’t slyfoot to the Court of Teeth and throw knives at people until you find what you want. Not anymore.”

“I’d send someone else,” she grumbles.

“And have the weight of our thrones sit on the Bomb’s delicate shoulders?” He raises an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, we are the ones saddled with that weight. Although I am pointing out that there are advantages to our position, as well. Advantages you often overlook. You’re a _queen_ , Jude. One with the ability to compel Suren to wait on you, and the power to ensure threats in her territory are neutralized without lifting a blood-stained finger yourself.”

“Are you really singing the praises of diplomacy to me?” she asks. “The irony is a bit much, isn’t it?”

“I only fight with you, wife. I care too little to exert that sort of effort for anything else.”

The implication, of course, being that he cares enough about her. As usual, the idea that Cardan bears any sort of affection for her is enough to make her flush, even when it manifests in their usual mean and roundabout way. “What is the parchment for?” she asks to distract herself from the heat in her cheeks.

He pushes it toward her. “Someone needs to actually invite the girl. And you need practice writing letters.”

“I write letters just fine, thank you very much!”

“Maybe for the adopted daughter of a noble family,” he says. “But your tone is much too deferential for the Queen of Elfhame.”

“Should I take a page out of your book and simply order people about via the written word?”

“Perhaps. You certainly could with Suren, if you wanted to.” He meets her gaze. “You’re not asking for anyone’s favor anymore. You’re certainly not jockeying for attention. Your hand controls to whom royal favor goes, to where royal attention is directed.” His words settle beneath her breastbone, soothing at least momentarily the flutter of anxiety Jude wakes and sleeps with. “You’ve got the power you fought for,” he says. “Now use it.”

She picks up the quill.

2.

“You absolute idiot,” Jude seethes. “You foolish, overconfident, preening, _insufferable_ prick. I hate you. I cannot _fathom_ just how incredibly stupid your thought process must have been.”

Cardan continues to lie still and pale in their bed. Not even an eyelash flickers at her words.

The healer on his other side clears her throat. “He lost a lot of blood, your majesty. I fear he will not be responsive for quite some time.”

Jude’s grip tightens around his slack hand from where she sits beside the bed. “And you’re not sure just how long?”

“I’m afraid not, majesty.”

“I see. You may see yourself out.” The healer bows once, deep, and retreats.

Fand, who had been doing her best to blend into the stone walls behind her, takes a half-step forward. “Can I—assist you at all, your majesty?”

Jude doesn’t look up from her husband’s prone form. “The courtiers weren’t too put out by my sudden disappearance, I trust?” 

She’d been meeting with a small group of nobles regarding a minor territory dispute when a court messenger had dashed into the throne room, nearly out of breath. “The High King, your majesty,” he’d managed, and Jude had felt her heart seize with terror.

“What? What happened?”

“He—rumors of one of the solitary fae, taking refuge on Insear after committing a string of murders. The High King expressed a desire to meet with him, to persuade him to leave Elfhame or face justice.” The messenger had audibly swallowed at the look on her face but forged ahead. “His majesty took only a few guards, at his own insistence. He has just now returned, unconscious and injured; I was sent immediately to find you.”

Fand had been delayed only a few minutes after Jude had sprinted to the royal chambers. She shakes her head now in response to her question. “I believe they’re very amenable to rescheduling.”

Cardan’s hand is cold. Jude fights the urge to check his pulse, to press her palm against the broad expanse of his chest to make sure he’s still drawing breath. The healer had stripped him bare of everything save his pants in order to wind snowy gauze around his torso, where three deep lacerations had cut from chest to hip. Jude, usually so good with blood and gore, had nearly passed out at the sight. 

“We learned about that solitary faerie only yesterday,” she says, mostly to herself. “I told him we could take care of it with a large company of knights, that there was no need to do anything rash because Insear is as of yet uninhabited.” She focuses on the sharp anger crowding into her throat; it feels better than the dull, bruising weight of horror that threatens to overwhelm her every time she catches blood seeping through his bandages. “Have you found out who was with him?” she asks.

“I believe three members of his personal guard.” Jude swears. “One died on Insear,” continues Fand. “The other two are currently being treated for their wounds.”

“And the solitary faerie?”

“Dead.”

“Good,” she says, quiet, vicious.

She dismisses Fand soon after. The night waxes and wanes outside their window as Jude sits by their bed, too afraid of jostling him to risk lying down. His skin remains cool to the touch, his breathing shallow and rhythmic. As the hours tick by, she can see bruises deepen across his face, around his ribcage, along his arms. She rests her cheek on the duvet by his hip, fingers still tightly intertwined with his own. 

She wakes to someone stroking hair away from her face. When she opens her eyes, the first thing she registers is the sunset, orange and golden light dappling their stone floor. The next thing she realizes is that the hand against her face is her husband’s.

“Cardan,” she breathes. 

He smiles, pleased. “Me,” he rasps. He’s still lying down, clearly too exhausted to even sit up.

“You _goddamn fool_ ,” she says, and scrapes her chair back to stand.

A frown tugs at his expression. “What?”

Fury, molten and dizzying, sweeps through her veins. “What were you _thinking?_ ” she hisses. “Three guards? You get it into your head to take down a murderous solitary faerie by yourself, without telling anyone where you were going or what you were doing, and you only take three guards?”

His frown deepens. “Jude—”

“ _Don’t_ interrupt me!” She paces the length of the room, abruptly unable to even look at him. “Were you thinking at all? Did any thought go into this insane endeavor? Or did you simply wake up and decide it was the right day to die from stupidity? This wasn’t just reckless, it was _idiotic_. What if you had been killed? What kind of message do you think it sent when you returned to the palace unconscious and bleeding to death?” 

“Jude,” he says again. It’s flat this time. “I made a decision. I will not recount the details of how or why I made that decision, not when you’re in this state.”

She whirls to face him. “Don’t you dare patronize me.”

His eyes are obsidian, sunk deep into his pale face. “Don’t lecture me.”

It’s possible the force of her anger is making it hard for her to breathe. “So you defend your actions,” she says.

“I won’t discuss this with you while you’re in the mood to do nothing but hurl blame at me.”

“Then I suppose we won’t be discussing this at all.” Her fists clench by her side. “Since it’s very clear no one is to blame but you.”

He hisses. “If you think I did this lightly, without any thought at all, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“So you did think about it.” Her laugh is short, brittle. “That’s even worse. The fact that you didn’t think you’d be at a tactical disadvantage—”

“Oh, because that thought occurs to you?”

“You’re not me! I’ve spent the better part of my life training to be a knight and a spy. I know my way around an armory.”

“And because of those skills, you always insist on facing threats alone.” His grin is little more than bared teeth. “You’ll notice I, at least, took knights.”

“We said we would dispatch at least a dozen knights to handle this threat. We agreed we had little to lose and a lot to gain by ensuring we could totally overwhelm whatever threat that faerie posed. Nowhere in that agreement did we discuss you heading off to play hero by yourself!”

“Nor did we discuss you doing the same,” he replies, with an air of finality that gives her pause. 

A few seconds tick by, agonizingly slow, as she puzzles it out. Then, “You thought I was planning on sneaking out myself.”

His face is impassive, every inch the disinterested monarch. “I beat you at your own game.”

Jude feels as though someone has pushed her off a cliff’s edge. “Cardan,” she starts, then stops. There’s a funny feeling in her throat that grows as the full impact of his words sinks in. “Cardan, did you—did you do this because you wanted to make sure I wouldn’t?”

No response. She sits on the edge of their mattress, mind whirling. He knew she would have been occupied with the courtiers’ land dispute last night; she herself had told him about it early that evening. He couldn’t have taken more than the three knights specifically assigned to guard him, not if he wanted to avoid alerting her to his movements. The knot in her throat gets bigger.

“Are you _crying?_ ” says Cardan, tone suddenly panicked, and Jude wipes at her face. 

“No,” she says, voice thick.

“Jude—” His hand catches on her hip, tugs. “Look at me.”

“No.”

“ _Look_ at me.”

She half-turns, glaring. “What?”

He reaches up to brush tears off her cheeks. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not,” she bites out. But she can’t keep herself from leaning into his touch. He waits, fingers gentle against her face. “I wasn’t going to go to Insear myself,” she says finally. 

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Which means you did this for nothing.”

“Well, we did manage to kill the faerie.”

“And nearly get yourself killed,” she snaps. 

“Were you worried for me, wife?”

“You were dragged onto our bed, nearly bleeding to death, unconscious and unresponsive.” She reaches out to encircle one of his wrists with her own fingers, to feel his pulse, reassuring and steady. “Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

He’s quiet for a few moments. “You were actually worried,” he says finally, with a tone almost akin to wonder.

“Of course I was,” she says, still a little prickly. But she gives into the impulse to lie down next to him, on her side, his arm instinctively curving around her. She tucks her head gingerly into the space between his shoulder and neck. “I mean it, Cardan. Never again.”

His hand runs down the length of her spine. “Alright,” he says, quiet. “Alright.”

3.

Jude will be the first to admit she doesn’t exactly have an eye for party planning. Still, as she looks out at their palace gardens, she recognizes Cardan has really outdone himself this time around. Twinkling lights limn the pavilion area with warm gold, seemingly floating unsupported. Soft cushions and intricately patterned rugs have been scattered all over the flagstones, inviting richly-clad bodies to recline on them. Silver platters of faerie fruit and golden goblets of dark wine litter every surface. Perhaps most beautifully, Cardan has drawn upon his ties with the earth to provide the finishing touches, draping hanging ivy along the wooden beams overhead and encouraging wildflowers to spiral outwards toward the darkened hedge maze. The overall effect is lush and inviting, intimate despite the near-hundred attendees.

Their court uses no formal announcement system, particularly for a smaller gathering such as this one. Still, as Jude approaches the pavilion, she can feel everyone’s eyes swivel to take her in. She picks out Suren’s small face almost immediately, surrounded by her usual retinue of courtiers. Her mother is still nowhere to be seen; Jude has spent the whole week without seeing hide nor hair of her and is more than pleased to keep it that way. The former girl-queen inclines her head slightly upon making eye contact; she nods in return before casting her gaze further in search of her husband.

Cardan had assisted her with her dress only an hour prior, his hands heavy and lingering against her skin as he’d fastened the small buttons winding up her spine. She’d been delayed in following him out to the revel by last-minute business with the Roach, who has been tasked with keeping his eyes and ears open from the shadowy corners where Suren’s nobles like to congregate. She sees him now, prowling the pavilion’s outer edge, ostensibly in search of a new goblet of wine but more likely listening in on the slightly-drunk conversation between a lady and her courtesan. 

Still, no sign of Cardan. Jude nearly goes on her tiptoes to peer above the crowd’s heads.

“Your majesty,” says a voice from her left before she can do so, and she turns to see Anael before her.

He bows, low enough to pass from respect to sarcasm. “Sir,” she replies, cool. “Shouldn’t you be attending to Suren tonight?”

“My lady has asked I continue to smooth our relations, majesty,” he replies. His gaze drags down from the crown on her head to the hem of her dress, infuriatingly slow. “I have assured her there are no rough waters to smooth.”

“And you would be correct,” she says.

“Of course,” he continues, “if there are no grievances between us, one must wonder why we were suddenly asked to wait upon you.”

“Isn’t it enough to want to host a few revels in your lady’s honor?”

His cat-eyed gaze flickers back to her own. “Perhaps,” he says.

She bites back impatience. Anael has been a tall, blond, insufferable thorn in her side since Suren’s retinue arrived. He appears to be of an age to her; at least, he’s certainly older than Suren. The Roach has told her he comes from a long line of diplomats and ambassadors. The girl must have assigned him to be her unofficial mouthpiece for the journey. Jude isn’t sure whether his insolence is an unfortunate trait his lady is unaware of, or whether it’s been carefully calculated to provoke a response. Until she figures it out, she must toe the line. Even if she’s ill-suited to diplomacy.

Amusement crawls across his unfortunately handsome face. “Would your majesty honor me with a dance?” he asks.

Sure enough, a cluster of fae have joined hands near the center of the pavilion. A motley band of musicians has just finished tuning their instruments; Jude recognizes the first few notes of a slow, intricate movement.

She briefly considers declining on the basis of her mortality. But she knows Cardan is around here somewhere, and has seen the Roach besides; neither one of them, nor her personal guards, would let her dance until she died. More importantly, if Suren has placed her trust in Anael, he may be her best chance at figuring out whether the black market weapons demand is driven by the girl or would-be traitors. She therefore suppresses a sigh and accepts his hand.

They fit easily into the mass of whirling couples. One of Anael’s hands spans the breadth of her waist, the other grasping her fingers tight. His touch is warm through the thin fabric of her dress.

“Does the mortal world have celebrations such as this?” he inquires presently.

“I believe they’re usually less formal,” she replies, thinking back to the TV shows she’d watched while in exile. 

He smiles, revealing pointed white teeth. “Faerie revels can be less formal, too.”

She’s seen enough evidence of that to dislike the reminder. At her silence, he continues, “The invitation for this little get-together was distressingly strict about things like attire and behavior. I must confess it surprised me; I had heard the High King was rather inclined toward wilder revels.”

“Is that so?” she murmurs, noncommittal.

“The High Queen too, perhaps,” he adds, and there’s a strange edge to his tone that has Jude looking up to meet his gaze. Something flickers in the depths of his eyes, something like curiosity but almost akin to hunger.

Another dancing couple passes within inches of her shoulder. Anael pulls her closer. The smell of peppermint and pine suddenly invades her senses, disconcertingly sharp. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she says, and his hand slips a few inches lower to rest on her hip.

“Do you not?” he asks. The music swells around them. Jude looks over his shoulder to find the Roach, to signal him to pull her out of the dance, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “I won’t be a guest of your court for much longer,” Anael continues, “but I’m sure we can agree upon a mutually beneficial arrangement for the short time we have left.”

“Unfortunately," says a voice from behind her, "the High Queen isn’t one for _mutually beneficial arrangements._ My wife only entertains proposals in which she’s the sole winner.”

A frisson of relief zips down Jude’s spine as Anael abruptly stops dancing. She turns to see Cardan standing there with a goblet in one hand and a languid expression painted on his face. The picture is marred only by the severe set of his mouth; Jude knows her husband well enough to read anger in it. 

“Your majesty,” says Anael, smooth. “We were just discussing the state of affairs between our two courts.”

“You mean your _former_ court, I’m sure.” Cardan extends a hand. She takes it, the cool metal of his rings biting into her fingers. “The discussion will have to be tabled until we grant you an audience tomorrow evening.”

“Should we go speak with some of the gentry?” she says, placing her other palm on his chest. She’s not sure whether the gesture is meant to be affectionate or restraining.

“No,” he replies. He doesn’t look away from Anael’s pale face as he addresses her. “I tire of this. I would speak with you alone.”

“But what about—”

“Shall we?” He gestures toward the palace. Jude, sensing acquiescence to be the wisest choice, goes. 

He drops her hand as soon as they exit the pavilion. The walk through the palace hallways is silent. Jude enters their chambers to find someone has lit a fire for them; the pleasant crackle of flames over dry wood is undercut momentarily by the heavy thud of Cardan swinging their door closed.

“Are you—well?” asks her husband, still facing the ornate wood.

“Yes,” she says. She gathers the folds of her skirt in one hand, then lets go. Soft velvet whispers against the floor. “Cardan, check your temper.”

“ _My_ temper?” he asks, turning around. “And what happened to your temper, Jude?”

She frowns. “I wasn’t even close to losing my own temper.”

“Precisely.” He takes a step toward her. The fire hollows out his cheekbones, plays tricks with the shadows in his eyes. “You didn’t seem put out at all.”

It takes a second for his implication to sink in. Once it does, she feels a familiar spurt of anger flare to life in her stomach. “Are you implying I enjoyed Anael’s attention?”

“You certainly weren’t objecting to it.”

“I didn’t realize I had to create a scene in the middle of a diplomatic mission just to soothe your ego!”

A sharp smile grows on his face. “Was that the only problem you had with accepting his offer? That I might be upset by it?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she snaps.

“Please, don’t let me keep you from pursuing your desires.”

“There’s only one person in our marriage likely to stray outside of our bed, and that person isn’t me.”

He advances another few steps. Jude keeps her spine straight, even as he draws close enough to dwarf her. He is so _annoyingly_ beautiful, especially on nights like tonight; the sneer on his face does little to detract from the broad set of his shoulders, the artful spill of midnight curls against his forehead. “I didn’t realize you still thought of me as the villain,” he says, voice like a razor’s edge.

“Are you sure you’re not projecting?” she counters. Her face feels hot, likely from the rage spilling like wildfire through her veins. “Assuming I want to fuck Anael is quite the jump, but maybe not for someone who’s looking for an excuse to engage in some infidelity of his own.”

“Oh, I doubt I have as much chemistry with anyone as you do with him. He’s been irritating you all week, hasn’t he? Working his way under your skin. I’ve certainly heard about it a nauseating number of times.”

“I didn’t realize you’d penalize me for doing my job,” she hisses. “Especially since, if you remember, this whole endeavor was your idea.”

“I certainly don’t remember thinking it would be a good idea for someone else to court my _wife_.” His lips caress the word, intimate enough to make her shudder. 

“As if I should be held responsible for the mistakes Anael chose to make!”

The sentence is barely out of her mouth when he seizes her upper arms, grip tight but not painful. His eyes are flinty, pupils dilated; the scent of rich earth and leather surrounds her, a familiar anchor. “If you say his name _one more time_ —” he starts, and she grabs the front of his shirt to pull him down for a bruising kiss.

His teeth immediately sink into her lower lip. One of his hands slides down to her hip to drag her closer, even as she pushes him backward toward the low divan by the fireplace. Her free hand goes to his hair and _tugs_ ; his groan is offset by the quiet clatter of his golden circlet as it falls to the floor. Her skin is burning, a dry, all-encompassing heat. As if reading her mind, his fingers push up her heavy skirts, high enough to expose one of her thighs to the cool air. The backs of his knees hit the divan and they go tumbling down, a startled breath punching out of both of their lungs as she lands on his lap.

He stares at her for a moment, anger and desire chasing each other round and round in his gaze. “What are you going to do,” she says, digging her nails into his shoulders. He snarls. “Are you going to fuck me until I don’t remember his name?”

His expression darkens, a split second before his hand moves from her thigh to her core. “To start,” he says, and it feels like only seconds until she’s coming.

Later, once they’ve thoroughly defiled the divan and then the rug before their fireplace, Cardan rolls over to mumble something into her shoulder. “What?” she says, preoccupied with pulling her crumpled dress out from under her.

“I shouldn’t have been angry with you,” he repeats.

She looks down at him. His gaze is fixed on his own slim fingers as they travel up and down the ladder of her bare ribcage. “No, you shouldn’t have been,” she says, soft.

He hears the question in it. “I fear,” he starts, lightly, easily, “you may tire of me once I cease being a challenge to you. A puzzle.”

The realization that he could think her affections so shallow blindsides her almost as much as the implication that he is still prepared to take what he can get. 

“Cardan, no,” she says. Behind his impassive face, his tail flicks from side to side. “Is that why you… Were you worried my attentions were actually straying?”

He shrugs. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, sharp and wrong. It’s been long enough she recognizes it as nerves. “I would not blame you. Faeries are a notoriously fickle lot, and you are Queen of us all.”

She reaches out to spread her fingers wide against his warm chest. His heartbeat thuds beneath her touch. “I am… bound to you,” she says, not daring to meet his gaze. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

His hand flits up, quicker than her eyes can track, to cover her own. “We will live for quite some time yet.” His voice is low, barely audible under the crackling fire. “Are you sure you won’t be bored, Jude?”

She swallows down the defensive discomfort that still wells to the surface whenever she tries to speak honestly about her regard for him. “I’d rather be bored with you than endlessly entertained with someone else,” she replies, and it’s worth it for the way the ice in his eyes melts, helpless.

“Jude,” he says again, and she leans over to kiss him, this time so soft her teeth ache. Then she stands up and holds a hand out to him.

“Come to bed,” she says, quiet, and he does.

+1.

It begins with sleeping in. Jude, normally an anxious and light sleeper, is accustomed to spending the first few hours of sunset to twilight without her husband, to creeping through darkening palace hallways with no one but bleary-eyed servants for company, to lighting the lamps in their chambers herself as the moon and her husband finally rise. It’s therefore a surprise to open her eyes to find Cardan already awake and at the small writing desk by their balcony.

“What’s going on?” she asks, and he turns in his seat to grin at her.

“A tiring week, wife?”

It’s disconcertingly dark. She sits up with some difficulty, body sleep-warm and heavy. “No more than usual,” she mutters, frowning.

“The evidence suggests otherwise.” He gets up to sit on the edge of the mattress, his hand smoothing down her back. “Perhaps you’re overexerting yourself.”

“No more than usual,” she repeats, leaning into his touch. “Maybe it’s the seasons changing. It’s harder to get out of bed when it’s cold out.”

“Well, far be it from me to force you out of our bed,” he replies, and she quickly dismisses any lingering doubts as his mouth charts a familiar path down her neck.

That’s the first time. After a week or two of rising after nightfall, she goes to find the Bomb.

“I don’t want any gossip about me feeling poorly,” Jude says, sitting down in the other woman’s apartments. The room they’re currently in is meant as a receiving parlor and therefore furnished fashionably; she can tell no part of the finery goes regularly used. “But I’m wondering if someone’s been slipping something in my food or drink.”

“Only you would be alarmed at the prospect of getting a few extra hours of sleep,” teases the Bomb, but she sits opposite her with a serious enough expression. “What exactly are the symptoms?”

“Nothing much. I’m just having trouble waking up at my usual hour. I used to sometimes wake and doze off again, but these past few days, I haven’t even been waking. I’ll just sleep until even Cardan’s awake.”

“No dizziness? No headaches?”

“No.”

“What about stomach pain? Numbness in the extremities?”

“No.” Jude frowns. “Well, I felt a bit like gagging the other day, but I’ve never much liked the smell of salted fish.”

A strange look passes over the Bomb’s face. “Jude,” she says, “I think you should speak with your sister.”

“Vivienne?” She’s nonplussed. “What would she know of poisons? You think it came from the mortal world?”

“No, Taryn.” The Bomb bites her lip. “If you don’t wish for rumors, I would speak with Taryn. Not a healer, and unfortunately not me.”

Jude’s frown deepens. “Should I be concerned?”

“I would think not. But sometimes you’re hard to read.” Her friend smiles, something bright behind her gaze. “I’m sure you can find her in her own apartments. The Ghost had _casually_ mentioned paying her a visit there today.”

“Hmm.”

Taryn had asked for lodgings in the palace a year or so after Locke’s death, and Jude had granted her the space without inquiring too closely. She knows what it’s like to live with ghosts; she hadn’t had the heart to begrudge Taryn trying to move away from her own. 

The unintended side effect of this is that the Ghost’s subtle suit has been further enabled. Jude is doing her best to pay it no mind, but spares a thought to hope Taryn is at least without guests at the moment.

Thankfully, her twin _is_ alone, save her son, who appears to be napping peaceably in his little cot by the fire. “Jude,” she cries. “Just in time. What do you think of the new rug? I don’t want to have to reupholster the furniture, but I’m afraid I might just have to.”

“It’s pretty,” says Jude, and Taryn scoffs.

“You could at least _look_ at it before giving me your opinion.”

“You know I have no eye for these things. You could ask Cardan.”

“Oh, never mind. To what do I owe the pleasure, majesty?”

“Give it a rest.” Jude flops into a rose-pink silk armchair by the cot. “How is my favorite nephew?”

“Well, he’s gotten over his nerves about going to school,” Taryn says, perching on the sofa next to her. She arranges her skirts carefully to avoid wrinkling the material. “The tutors assure me he’s settling in nicely.” She fixes her with a shrewd eye. “But did you really come here to discuss Damien?”

Jude shrugs. “I’m not sure what I came to discuss. The Bomb suggested I come ask you about some strange illness I’ve been suffering from lately.”

Concern passes over her sister’s face. “Illness? What kind?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been feeling strangely tired, to the point of not being able to get up at the normal time in the evening. I thought perhaps I’d been poisoned, but it’s been a week or so and I don’t know of any poison with this long of a timeline.”

“And the Bomb seemed to think I would know?” Taryn looks bewildered.

“Yes, once I mentioned I’d felt a little nauseous a day or so ago.” Jude feels a flutter of panic run through her. “Wait, have _you_ been poisoned recently?”

“No, I—” Taryn stops dead. Something sharpens in her expression. “Jude, what else?”

“What?”

“What other symptoms? Tiredness, a little nausea—do your feet hurt? Your breasts?”

Jude frowns. “My breasts always hurt a little before I get my monthly.”

“And when was the last time you got that?”

“I don’t know, less than a month ago, I assume.”

Taryn leans forward. “Think.”

Jude frowns. A week ago she’d had that infuriating meeting with Randalin; not then. Two weeks ago had been that small delegation from the Court of Termites; not then either. Three weeks ago had been the surveying trip to Insear, four weeks ago had been a quick visit to the mortal world, five weeks ago, six—

Her prior blip of panic has not fully subsided. As she sits there in silence, it starts to come back, stronger than before.

She looks toward her nephew. His small face is soft in slumber by the warm hearth. “Taryn,” she says, and her voice sounds unfamiliar to her own ears. “I cannot be.”

“Jude,” says her twin, “perhaps you are.”

She sits in the middle of their bed, waiting. Her hands are cold beneath the sleeves of her nightgown. The cool grey of dawn outside their window threatens to break into pink and gold.

Finally, the door to their chambers groans open. Jude’s heart leaps into her throat, nearly strangling her. Her husband enters barefoot and already tugging off his tunic, exhaustion weighing down his eyelids.

“I want to be unconscious within five minutes,” he says. “I don’t care if you have to knock me out by force. I deserve at least twelve hours of sleep after a whole night reviewing tax figures with the Treasury.”

She nearly chickens out. There must be something to how unnaturally still she’s being, though, because Cardan pauses on his way to their wardrobe. “Jude?” he says. “Are you sleeping sitting up?”

“I—” she starts, before choking.

He’s by her side in an instant. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she manages. Heat flares to life across her cheeks. Bizarrely, it feels like she’s on the verge of tears.

Cardan’s eyes widen. “It’s clearly not nothing,” he says. “Jude, is all well? Did you receive news? Is your family alright?”

Her family. She reaches out to grip his hands between her own. “I’m pregnant,” she manages, and he freezes.

The great grandfather clock in the corner of their chambers ticks out endless seconds. Jude fixes her gaze on their quilt’s embroidery. Cardan, chest rising and falling with quick breaths, lets her dig her fingernails into the backs of his palms.

“What?” he finally manages.

“You heard me,” she half-snaps, crabby with nerves.

“I—” He stops. Then, a moment later, he starts _laughing_.

She’s nearly horrified enough to shove him away. “Cardan!”

“Jude,” he replies, and the warmth in his voice is enough to light a fire in the pit of her stomach. “‘You heard me,’” he mimics, and her tears evaporate into laughter, just like that.

“You are _such_ an asshole,” she says, and he kisses her until she stops laughing, until she’s tugging at his hair, until his hand comes to rest on her stomach.

They break apart, just far enough to rest their foreheads together. “What are we going to do,” she whispers, and he shrugs, infinitesimal.

“Are you happy?” he asks.

Her heart is racing. Her lips buzz from the taste of him. She is _terrified_ , scared like she’s never been before, not when she killed Valerian, not when she gambled Oak’s throne, not when she slipped into the Undersea, when she broke her exile, when she claimed her crown, when she told him she loved him, would love him until the day she finally returns to clay and dust, and maybe for all the days after that, too.

“Yes,” she says, and the truth of it hurts somewhere in the depths of her chest. “Yes, I’m happy.”

He holds her, close and fierce and trembling. “Me too,” he says, and that lodges deep in her heart, pulsing and warm.


End file.
